“Yes—extraordinary, isn’t it?” Dad said. “Let me show you.”
He made a dash toward the side yard, where the battered metal cellar doors were located. The chief and I followed more slowly, and saw Dad’s head disappear into the opening just as we turned the corner of the house. The chief looked at me.
“You’ve seen this body?” he asked.
“Yes. Part of it anyway—the hand. The rest’s still buried.”
“Lord,” the chief said. “And here I was hoping for a quiet Memorial Day weekend.”
He walked over to the basement doors and frowned at them for a few moments. Since the doors weren’t doing anything to merit disapproval, I suspected that he wasn’t really all that keen on going inside. I glanced down through the doors myself and could see why. Now that my eyes were used to the bright sunlight outside, I could see little more than a few steep steps disappearing into the gloom.
“Chief?” Dad called. “Are you coming?”
“You know how excited he gets about murders.”
The chief only rolled his eyes. Then he put one foot carefully on the first step, and I watched his head drop lower with each step until it vanished into the basement.
Should I follow, or stay outside to keep an eye on the penguins?
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
NO NEST FOR THE WICKET
Copyright © 2006 by Donna Andrews.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781429992084
First eBook Edition : May 2011
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006040420
ISBN: 0-312-99791-4
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / August 2006
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2007